


Promptober 2018

by Ethanamide



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, prompts, relevant warnings in each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 03:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16255439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethanamide/pseuds/Ethanamide
Summary: Various Solavellan prompts from the Inktober and Fictober lists, also published on Tumblr.





	1. Day One

1\. Can you feel this

[Post-tresspasser, Tw: mentions of suicide]

It took until the veil fell for Ena’vun to truly appreciate just how poisonous Solas’ self-loathing and guilt had been. He was supposed to walk the Din’an Shiral, the walk of death; suicide. From that moment he walked away in the eluvian, having confessed as much, she had not expected to ever see him again, but fate was a tricky mistress, and had seen him survive. Weak as a newborn pup, hidden away in one of his most ancient temples, protected by his fiercest followers, he slept. She stumbled across him one day, meandering through the eluvians, as the awoken elvhen rebuilt their world. She had taken a wrong turn somewhere, and the eluvian had shimmered a strange green as she stepped through. The guard on the other side of the mirror had been confused to see her, but before he could stop her from going anywhere, she had already turned the corner, and was out of sight. She followed the path for almost twenty minutes, winding up the mountainside, reminiscent of the route to Skyhold. The path lead to a temple, guarded by the large stone wolves she had grown to find bittersweet. It was not immediately obvious whose temple this was, or whether it was still in use in such a fashion. She took a step through the door, into what appeared to be a petitioning chamber, if her memory of the temple of Mythal was anything to go by. 

She heard murmurs of how no one was to be seen, and she was not supposed to be there, some elves scampering off to inform whoever the big boss was that someone unwanted had arrived. She continued on, walking up the stairs, towards what was likely to be the inner sanctum. A friend had once told her that as long as you looked like you belonged, people would not ask questions. Evidently whatever was happening here, however, was a small operation, all knowledgeable folk accounted for and known by name and sight, she was unlikely to be able to talk her way through. The elves guarding the door to the next chamber narrowed their eyes at her with suspicion as she approached, almost falling over with shock when the gentle caress of her hand over the mosaics activated the magic, and she was able to walk through to the room. A room no one had entered for years.

Ena’vun could feel the latent magic in the next room, the inner sanctum most likely, despite it being entirely devoid of people. There were no mosaics in this room, just frescos, not dissimilar to those Solas had painted at Skyhold, or the ones they had found during the exalted council. She dared to hope. A tall, robed figure appeared at the opposite end of the room, striding towards her with their hands clasped behind their back. She knew that posture, those shoulders, those ears. He was alive.  
He looked tired, the freckles on his nose more pronounced against deathly pale skin, his shoulders sagged with the weight of his decisions, his eyes devoid of any of the sharpness that she knew so well. The face of a man who had planned to die, and yet did not.

She did not look much better, having expected to die with the fall of the veil, or in one of the wars that followed. The veil had ceased to exist with a shudder, a strong breeze whipped across Thedas, stripping the magical construct from existence. The elvhen had risen, returning to Arlathan to rebuild their city, choosing to ignore humans at first. Gradually, the cities within the Brecillian Forest, the Tirashan, and the Emerald Graves were rebuilt from the ruins, elves flocking to them. Trade was established, and provided Tevinter and Orlais remained politically sensible, they could peacefully co-exist. It had been particularly interesting to watch Tevinter overturn a millennium of enslavement to prevent a war on two fronts. There was no way they could win against both the Qun and the Elvhen, and it was possible that with the ancients help, they could drive the Qunari back.

She had spent a good few years fighting with the chargers as they dealt with some of the demons that had been spawned by the falling of the veil, but once the magicks had stabilised she had been left with little to do. Her friends were dispersed, her clan, and family dead, she had no where to go. Her primary experience of ancient elves were Abelas, who deemed her barely sentient, and Solas, who had compared her to a tranquil, so she left them well alone, choosing instead to settle on the outskirts of the Brecillian Forest, in a small village. No one recognised her, or expected anything more from her than she could give.

Ena’vun stayed perfectly still, waiting for him to come to her, afraid that if she should go any further he may bolt. As he approached, it became evident how fragile he was, a sight she found deeply unnerving. He walked over to her slowly, as if each step pained him, the echo of his footsteps the only sound. 

“You found me.” He said tonelessly, stopping a couple of feet in front of her, “What will you do with me, I wonder?”

“Feed you a decent meal,” Ena’vun blurted out, before she could censor herself. A ghost of a smile crossed his face, before it settled back to that irritating neutral that she hated so much. “When was the last time you ate? You slept?” She asked softly, more to herself than to him, stepping forward and engulfing him in an embrace before he had time to turn away. He stood stiff in her arms, still fighting the internal war about whether he should be with her. She buried her nose in his neck, and inhaled deeply, before letting him go. Tears in her eyes, she managed a small wave, her goodbye. His face still blank, she turned on her heel, and made her way to the door, 

“Wait.” The hoarse whisper met her ears, and the hand that was reaching for the doorknob fell limply back to her side.

When nothing followed, no more words, or the hand on her hip she so desperately wished for, she turned around, a biting retort dying on her tongue at the sight of him sat on the floor, head in his hands, shaking violently. She watched him grapple with his invisible demons, unable to understand the rapid stream of babbled Elvhen he was muttering under his breath. She sat down next to him, and rested her head on his shoulder, a quiet comfort.

“You would be better off without me.” He said quietly, “The world would have been better off without me,” 

The belief he had in those words broke her heart. Self-hatred was a powerful poison, she knew just how so from first hand experience, and without him, and her friends within the inquisition, she would not be here now. They sat in silence for a while, Solas lost in thought, while Ena’vun ran a hand up and down his back in what she hoped was a soothing manner. Eventually, his head dropped onto hers, and the steady sound of his breathing told her he was asleep. She let him rest until she was numb from having sat for so long, and needed to move. She tried to be as careful as possible, moving him so she could stand and wake her legs up, but he stirred at the first movement. He yawned widely, pulling himself to his feet, needing to grab on to her to stop himself from falling over. She wrapped her arm around his waist, steadying him, as he started to walk towards the back of the chamber.

They moved slowly through the next two rooms, Ena’vun keeping one eye on Solas, and the other marvelling at her surroundings. It was beautiful, but not as ostentatious as some of the other temples she’d seen, more for living than for worship. She wondered if this was where he led his first rebellion from, before going to Skyhold to raise the veil; thousands of people could be housed here without it being seen as cosy. They finally made it to what she assumed to be his suite of rooms, where he sighed, let go of her, and disappeared off into one of the side rooms. It was sparsely decorated, the odd fresco, a few plants, and a desk buried under a small mountain of paperwork, but there was nothing homely about it. She wondered when the last time he’d had a proper home was, and whether he had considered the inquisition home for a while. She was brought out of her musing by Solas poking his head out of the door he had just gone through, looking irritable. He indicated for her to follow, as if it had been obvious that she should have done.

The room was dark, curtains pulled, with a dim veilfire orb hovering over a large looking bed.

“I know it is presumptuous, but-” He finished lamely, gesturing at the bed. 

Ena’vun rolled her eyes, before going to lie down atop the covers, fully clothed. He climbed in next to her, just the top of his bald head visible amongst the vast amounts of fabric, and almost instantly fell asleep. She envied that about him, he seemed to be able to sleep anywhere, and without difficulty, whereas it took her at least two hours and a blood sacrifice to drift off. She stroked the top of his head absent-mindedly, wondering if he needed her there to sleep. Once he had revealed his true identity, it had not taken her long to put the missing pieces into the jigsaw- things like the reason behind his utterly bizarre diet. He appeared to eat infrequently, and mostly sweet things, which on the face of it was simply odd, but coupled with the myth that the ancient elves subsisted on the energy of the Fade, made more sense. If he wasn’t sleeping, then he would not be eating, so to speak, which would explain his sickly appearance. She fell asleep herself not long after, the warmth of the room, and smell of the furs lulling her to the Fade. 

Solas was surprised to see her, he had not expected her to stay, let alone sleep. He was Dreaming of their first Fade encounter in her memory of Haven all those years ago. 

“Does Fade-tongue still not count?” She asked lightly, a twinkle in her eyes. 

He laughed despite himself, remembering the subsequent conversation to this encounter. She held out a hand, and he took it, lacing their fingers together as they walked around the snowy landscape of yesteryear. They talked little, just enjoying the others company for a while, before she stopped, and placed a hand on his face, forcing him to look at her. Here he looked as he ever did, lively eyes, twitchy, vigilant ears, pale, but not unhealthy skin. So far removed from the real world. 

“No more poison.” She said softly, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb. 

He leant into her hand, shutting his eyes as he mulled over her words. He was responsible for so many deaths, those before the veil, those caused by the veil, those in the interim years, and in the second rebellion. The healer has the bloodiest hands, but what he had done was not healing, not worthy of healing. He had precious little in the world for himself, it was as it had always been, he was ostracised by friend and foe alike, until one or other had need of him. He was tired of fighting, tired of justifying himself, tired of being. 

“I am weary,” He said, his words weighty

“Then rest.” She replied simply. “Retire, we’ll get a dog,”

He laughed again, his smile reaching his eyes this time, and retorted that he was all the dog they’d ever need. She chuckled lightly, retirement would suit them both just fine.


	2. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “People like you have no imagination.” - Modern AU

2\. “People like you have no imagination.”

Solas blinked several times, unsure he’d heard her correctly. Varric was hosting a Halloween party, with an elvhen theme, with a competition for the best Dread Wolf costume. Apparently, he had been talking to Ena’vun about Dalish customs at this time of year, and decided that it would make for a fun theme to his party, games based on old myths, and traditions. He wasn’t sure whether to be put out or flattered that the Dalish carved pumpkins in his likeness to ward off demons, but it would have been infinitely better to participate in that than a costume competition. He supposed it could be amusing to see what they could come up with, as there were precious little in the way of frescos or statues for them to base their ideas off, just myths. 

He decided, in the spirit of historical accuracy, to go exactly as he was at the peak of Elvhenan. It would take some magic, he needed to regrow his hair for one, and a traipse through the eluvians to reclaim some of his clothes, but he would at least be an accurate representation of himself – especially as it was unlikely anyone else would be. It was strange, feeling the braids down his back again, the metal hoops through his ears, the soft silken robe against his bare chest, the sudden nostalgia for his world hitting him like a freight train. He swallowed down the rising nausea, remembering what had happened between then and now, the war, the veil, the ages that had passed while he slept. He did not have long to brood, however, as his phone alarm starting its incessant beeping to remind him it was time to leave. Despite offering to pick Ena’vun up, Solas would be travelling to the infernal party on his own. She had been quite clear that she didn’t want him, or anyone else seeing the costume until the last minute, which was not at all concerning. He took one last look at the reflection of someone he’d never expected to see again, sighed, and made his way to the car.

Driving guaranteed him an excuse not to drink. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy drinking, or that modern alcoholic beverages were profoundly lacking in both taste and potency, but that he didn’t trust himself. Tonight of all nights especially, dressed as he was, it would be easy to slip back into the mindset of his younger self, and run the risk of ruining the carefully cultivated persona he had established. It was not far to Varric’s, he could have walked if he was so inclined, and if he ran the risk of indulging himself it would be easy to get home, and pick up the car in the morning. It also meant that his grand entrance would not be spoiled. Here, he was running the greatest risk, arriving at the door in his wolf form, and shifting back to elvhen as he stepped over the threshold. Divulging the knowledge that he was a shapeshifter was dangerous, but as it was in keeping with the theme, he hoped they would think it a neat party trick, rather than what it actually was. 

He was right, and the look on their faces as he walked in the door were priceless. Varric had commented on his ‘nice trick’, and none of the other mages had made a fuss of it; people could be easy to predict sometimes. He was settling in with a small whiskey, trying not to laugh or cry at people’s depictions of him, when a commotion in the hallway indicated that Ena’vun had arrived. He peered around the corner, trying not to look too keen, almost dropping his drink when she came into view. He wasn’t sure it was possible, or reasonable to be as offended as he was aroused by her costume, if you could call it that, as it was in fact just a single wolf pelt that did well to cover all of her more immodest bits. 

“Tongue back in your head chuckles,” Varric said, laughing at Solas’ not-subtle expression.

“Let the man gawp, she does look magnificent.” Dorian interjected, slapping the elf on the back.

Solas took a moment to look over their costumes, rolling his eyes at the poor attempts

“You people have no imagination,” He stated, changing the subject,

“I have a wolf!” Dorian protested, mock-offended that his usual attire coupled with a small plush wolf with an extra pair of eyes stuck on, was deemed unimaginative. Varric chuckled, leaving the two to their light-hearted bickering. 

Ena’vun had been at the party for ten minutes before she noticed Solas in the corner, she must have walked past him at least twice, the hair and the robes a cunning disguise. She appraised him from afar, deciding she rather liked his makeover, wolf-skull headpiece and all. 

“My Lord Fen’Harel,” She grinned, blissfully unaware of the weight of her statement, the grin swiftly turned to concern when Solas looked like he may be having an aneurism. In truth, he felt like he was, his rational brain fighting with his emotional brain over how to deal with wanting her to say his name, but unable to reconcile that he wasn’t that elf any more. He may be leading another rebellion, but he was intending to keep his identity under wraps, a faceless name to rally from rather than have himself as a figurehead. Her outfit was not helping matters, and his immediate respite in having another drink was not a sensible option. “Solas?” She poked him sharply in the arm, “Are you alright? I know you dislike the Dalish, but this is just a bit of fun,”

He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but he was sure it came out as more of a grimace. She sighed, allowing him to keep his secrets, complementing him on his outfit instead. She seemed to have a particular fascination with his earrings, and his hair, maybe he would grow it out once all this was over. He found jewellery strange in this age, people did not adorn themselves in the same way as his people had, and he did not want to mark himself as any more unusual than he already was. Perhaps he would wear them a little more often too, if she asked. He allowed her to drag him off to participate in some of the ‘themed’ events, Dirthamen’s cake almost causing him to burst into hysterical laughter, as he considered what his friend, the God of Secrets, would have thought of his name being put to a game involving a cherry hidden in a cake made of flour.

All too soon came the costume judging. Varric, and Leliana were to be the judges, looking everyone up and down while making notes on their clipboards. When Solas noticed it seemed to be a voluntary entry, and not compulsory, he glared at both Varric and Ena’vun, realising he’d been conned. To the surprise of only himself, Dorian came last, apparently magisterial fashion, and not enough eyes on his wolf had not gone down well with the judges. Leliana then skipped ahead to third place, Solas, second place, Hawke and Merril’s couple’s entry, one depicting the man, and the other the wolf- with Ena’vun coming first. 

“But I am historically accurate!” Solas protested, jaw almost on the floor that Fen’Harel couldn’t win a competition based on his own likeness.

“Chuckles, with legs like that, no one cares.” Varric replied with a shrug. 

Even Solas couldn’t argue with that.


	3. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3\. "How can I trust you?"
> 
> DA4 Speculative, implied Solavellan, taster of an as yet unpublished WIP.

3\. “How can I trust you?” 

The last thing Dorian had been expecting was for Solas to show up in the breakfast room of his family home in Minrathous. It had been almost a year to the day of the Exalted Council, the last time they’d heard from him, although it had been far longer since anyone but the former inquisitor had seen him in person. He had been looking forward to a day off from pretending to listen to the other magisters complain about how their slaves were disappearing, but the look on the elf’s face told him he would need to change out of his pyjamas. There weren’t many reasons Dorian could think of, as to why he would receive such a visit, and none of them were good, unless the impossible had happened and Solas was here to invite him to his wedding to Ena’vun personally. The lack of an excitable crystal call, however, put paid to that idea. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Fen’Harel? That is what you go by now, is it not?” Dorian enquired, hoping that a little light ribbing wouldn’t get him turned to stone. The lack of response told him the elf was in no mood for teasing. “Solas, believe it or not I cannot read your mind. You are going to have to tell me why you’re here.”

When that did not garner a reply either, Dorian sighed irritably, and tucked into his breakfast, asking the servant to bring another plate up for their guest. Not one for awkward silences, he elected to bring Solas up to speed on all their old friends, telling him things that he was sure he already knew through his network of spies, but proved a point of sorts. He spent twenty minutes talking about Varric’s new novel: The wolf at sunrise, a book based on the rumours that had followed the inquisitor and the apostate over the years. The magister had been hoping the annoy the other man into revealing his purpose, it had worked before, but as time dragged forward, it became apparent what Solas was not saying.

“Is she alive?” He asked quietly, half considering calling for his favourite bottle of red.

Solas did not know, was the short answer. The longer answer took up most of the rest of the morning, the elf explaining that there were very few who could mask someone’s presence in the Fade from him, and even fewer who knew of his association with her. Whoever had taken her, in whatever manner, had to have come from the inquisition. He refused to consider that it could be one of his own people, he could count on one hand those who may have heard the rumours, and had already interrogated them. Dorian’s eyebrows shot up at the implications, and cold tone of voice, and the second suggestion that she could just be taking a tea that prevents a person from slipping into the Fade, went down equally as well. None of his scouts had seen or heard from her for longer than he deemed safe, and he had been unable to find her in the Fade for nearly a week. Consuming that much magebane tea would not be medically advisable. Dorian relented, out of ideas that Solas could possibly have overlooked. 

He hated to admit it, but had Solas not come to him, Dorian would have been knocking on the eluvian downstairs within the next day or so anyway. He had not heard from her via crystal for an unusually long length of time, and the magical connection seemed to have been tampered with. They spent the rest of the morning trying to ascertain as to the source of the magical fault, or rather, Solas started casting spells Dorian had never thought possible, and the Tevinter watched and occasionally handed him something. It quickly became apparent just how much had been lost by the fall of Arlathan, and how little his people had scavenged, if Solas succeeded with his goal to raise the elvhen, humanity didn’t stand a chance. 

Solas finished his investigations just in time for lunch to be served, which to Dorian’s surprise, he actually ate. His eclectic diet had been the focal topic of many of Ena’vun’s rants during their inquisition years. 

“Man cannot live on Fade alone, Dorian,” He said with a smirk, deliberately quoting Varric’s novel.

“I knew you’d read it!” the Tevinter exclaimed, leading them into a genial conversation about the truths and embellishments of the current instalment of their mutual friend’s book, Solas letting slip that the dwarf kept leaving copies nailed to an eluvian he kept in the basement of the Viscount’s Palace. Occasionally, the elf would even make corrections, and leave them on Varric’s desk. It was a dangerous, but amusing endeavour.

As it was growing dark, the crystal started to glow, and a man’s voice speaking elvhen echoed through the room. Dorian watched suspiciously, as Solas rolled his eyes, and replied in the same ancient language. From the few words he’d picked up travelling with Solas and Ena’vun, and from his own study, Dorian could follow the general gist of the conversation, although the fact it was mostly swearing did help. The call did not last long, with Solas hanging up on whomever the other participant was, cutting off their cackling laughter. He ranted in elvhen for a few minutes, before looking at Dorian as if he expected an answer. The Tevinter duly informed him that if he wanted one, he’d have to repeat whatever it was that had been said in trade, or Tevene. Solas rolled his eyes, and gave a quick summary of the conversation in trade: an old friend had acquired the former inquisitor, and was keeping her entertained, which was not a good thing.

“So you do know where she is! How can I trust you, if you can’t give a straight answer to anything?” Dorian sighed, unsurprised at the deception

“I do now- I did not when I arrived. As for trusting me, that is irrelevant, you may trust that I wish Ena’vun removed from his presence as intact as possible.”

“As intact as possible?!” Dorian exclaimed, horrified at the permutations already flying through his head.

Solas frowned “Trust that I will do everything in my power to get her back.” There were occasions when the lack of decent ears, and emotional context to a language made his life difficult. Expressing just how much he didn’t want her there, and how risky removing her would be was almost impossible in their limited tongue, and minimal body language.

In the end, it was a three hour trek through the crossroads to the place Solas was convinced she was being held. The journey could have been quite pleasant, but Dorian insisted on asking all the questions he’d wanted answers to from the moment he’d found out Solas’ true identity. Somewhere in the second hour, the conversation had taken a turn from amiable, and academic, to nostalgic. Their time at Skyhold seemed to bother Solas for a reason that Dorian couldn’t fathom, and he was far too curious to let go. After being accused of regretting it, and feeling guilty for leading the inquisitor on, Solas snapped.

“How do you think I found Skyhold, Dorian,” He asked waspishly, as if the answer was obvious. The other man shrugged and mumbled something that sounded like ‘Fade’, causing Solas to take a deep breath, and reveal that Skyhold had been his originally. That shut Dorian up. The elf continued, saying that it had never felt more like a home than during their time there, and that it was the closest thing he’d had to a home for a long time. The final part of their journey was silent. 

They eventually made it to what appeared to be the basement of some sort of ruined temple, rashvine growing through the stone, strange foliage in the flooded tunnels. Solas waved his hand, and the stairs that finished halfway up the wall, extended down to greet them. As they walked through the maze-like building, Dorian was convinced that he knew the place, it seemed eerily familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. It didn’t take long for them to reach the inner sanctum, from where Ena’vun waved enthusiastically at them.

“My new friend Yevven here was just telling me all about the time he and a hot-blooded wolf cub got their hands on some of Mythal’s best wine.” She shouted over, a large grin plastered across her face. Whatever Dorian had been expecting, this was not it.

“Of all the stories, you went for that one?!” Solas exclaimed, his ears turning a bright shade of red.

“Hush little brother, she knows appallingly little about you.” The other figure chastised, making his way down the stairs to meet them. 

“Dorian, this is my old friend Yevven, more commonly known as Dirthamen, God of Secrets.” Solas introduced. A faint blush crossed Dorian’s cheeks as the other elf looked him up and down before winking rakishly. Solas smirked, Dirthamen always did like them pretty.

“You propose an exchange then? Alas, my time here is limited, this is merely a courtesy call – Andi says hi by the way.” 

The colour drained from Solas’ face as the formerly banished God went on to explain how the veil was dangerously unstable, and as a result their prison was crumbling around them. He could account for Andruil, having been trapped with her, and Ghilan’nain, but as they were separate from the others, he could not say whether Elgar’nan or Sylaise had got out. Solas growled at the revelation. He knew he needed to work quickly, but this complicated matters beyond his current contingencies. Dirthamen laughed at his friend’s response, and clapped him on the shoulder, saying it could be worse, Mythal could still be meddling. Solas laughed darkly, and quickly put him right. A shadow fell over Dirthamen’s face, and in a chilling voice he stated that at least she would prove a distraction for Andi. A moment passed, before he appeared to sniff the air, and disappeared into a dark mist.

Solas sighed heavily, and put his head in his hands, he had a decision to make.


	4. Day 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. "Will that be all"
> 
> Post-Crestwood

It had been a long day, following a long week, and an even longer year. The time to take the fight to Corypheus was almost upon them, and Ena’vun was setting her affairs in order. All three remaining members of her family, a sister, an aunt, and a grandmother, were missing, and uncontactable, so the majority of her worldly things would be distributed amongst her inquisition colleagues. She’d been calling various people to her quarters over the last week or so, explaining what she wanted them to have, in some cases giving it to them there and then. She had no intentions of staying as the inquisitor once Corypheus was gone, her purpose had been served, and she was unwilling to be used any further.

Solas was the last of the inner circle to be called to her quarters, Dorian passing on the request with a scathing remark or two to emphasise how strongly he disapproved of whatever was about to happen. Solas, for his part, was curious. He had been avoiding spending time with her, or any of the others since Crestwood, and the feeling was mutual. He thanked Dorian politely, and strode across the main hall to her door, ignoring the looks that followed him. The inner door was propped open when he got to the top of the tower, so he let himself in, climbing the last flight of stairs slowly, in case the open invitation wasn’t as he thought. 

He found her sitting at the desk answering letters, back turned to him. She did not look round as she instructed him to take the parcel atop the sofa.

“Will that be all, Inquisitor?” He asked, hoping this wasn’t what he thought it was.

“You may open it whenever suits you, there will be nothing else,” She said dismissively,

Solas frowned at the gift in his hand, making it the three steps back to the staircase before spoke again. A single word; he wanted to know why, and he needed to hear her say it aloud. She sighed, put down her quill, and turned around to face him.

“It may have escaped your notice, but there is a very powerful ancient magister darkspawn who wants me dead. I may not survive our final encounter, in fact I intend not to, if that’s what it takes. Not to mention it would avoid a slow and painful death as I’m gradually consumed by my own left hand.” Ena’vun snapped, eyes blazing as she confirmed his worse fears. There was a moments silence before she turned back to her work “Give it to Dorian if you do not want it. I had hoped you would want something to remember me by. That will be all.” She attempted to dismiss him again, trying to ignore the rustling of paper behind her as he opened her gift. The pained noise that escaped his throat cast a shadow of a vindictive smile across her face. She had been intending to leave it for him before the whole Crestwood debacle, convinced since Haven that her chances of getting out alive were slim, his actions didn’t change that. 

The room was quiet but for the scratching of her quill for several minutes, until he finally spoke, insisting that he could not take such a gift, his voice almost panicked. Abandoning her work, she stood and sighed heavily.

“My family are gone. You are all I had left.” She replied softly, looking up at him, defeated. She had been hoping to keep the encounter brief, so her resolve to remain indifferent would not waver, but it was not to be. She crossed the room in four short strides, taking the box out of his hands and placing it on the sofa. She then removed her most treasured trinket from the box, a small engraved coin, said to be from the days of Arlathan that had been handed down through countless generations of her family. The coin had a small hole, through which a fine chain was threaded, a chain which had been around her neck for the last twenty years. She had been intending to pass it on when she returned, but now there was nothing, and no one to return to. The necklace dangled from her fingers, as she took Solas’ hand in hers, and slowly draped the chain across his upturned palm. She then closed his fingers over it, encasing his fist in her hands.

“When you forget me, Cole will know what to do with it.” Ena’vun whispered, lifting herself onto her tiptoes to place a featherlight kiss upon his cheek. “Goodbye, Solas,”

He raised his free hand with the intention of brushing a stray hair out of her eyes, but she was halfway back to her desk, no wish to linger in the moment. He picked up the box, and made his way back to the rotunda, desperately trying to distract himself from what had just happened. Dorian waiting for him as he came through the door would do. The Tevinter looked him up and down, and satisfied with the results, made his way back upstairs. The elf sat back at his desk, mulling over the other man’s strange reaction, until he realised that Dorian should, by rights, have the necklace. He was the older brother Ena’vun had never had, and was easily the closest thing she’d had to family for a long time, himself included. It wasn’t a matter of jealousy, but that Dorian was far more deserving of such a treasured gift. He opened his hand, and stared at the coin, it was indeed from the days of Arlathan, from before the first war, before the Evanuris rose to Godhood. It was one of the few things in this age almost as old as him. He sighed heavily, put the necklace back in the box, and opened the large book in front of him, time was nearly up.

48 hours later, Corypheus banished, the orb fractured, and Solas gone, Ena’vun walked into the rotunda through force of habit. She noticed her wooden box still on the desk, angry, and disappointed she opened it, expecting to find everything she had left for him still there. To her surprise it was empty, but for one item: his jaw bone necklace. She picked it up with a shaking hand, fighting the tears forming at the corner of her eyes, maybe there was hope after all.


	5. Day 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7\. "No worries, we still have time." / Exhausted
> 
> Post-Trespasser

7.“No worries, we still have time.” / Exhausted

At long last they stood at the edge of all things, the veil ready to be lowered safely, armies in waiting. He finished his incantation, placing the last foci in its place before turning to look at the approaching figure. 

“It is done vhenan, there is nothing you can do now,” He said sadly, feeling the magic tingling on his skin as his spell started to wake up.

“No worries, we still have time,” Ena’vun replied nonchalantly, chuckling at the confusion that flitted across his features, “Time to say goodbye, Solas.” She clarified softly

He nodded, it was more than he deserved, although he suspected she had figured out a flaw in his plan. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, preferring to fool himself into thinking that she had come in response to that fateful moment in the Fade, when she had discovered his greatest fear. The privilege of not dying alone was not one he thought he would have. As she got closer to him, however, the nagging feeling that everything he had fought so hard for was about to be thwarted would not leave. There was a little too much steel in her eye, shoulders a touch too square, hand nearest her knife twitching- but just the once.

He stepped forward to greet her, hand clasped behind his back, a sad smile on his face. He had planned for this eventuality, unsure of who would come for him in the end, who would be his final death. He was torn, exhausted by the constant internal conflict of wanting her to kill him, but not wanting to have to kill her, despite knowing that he would have to in order to protect his work. He could not foresee a series of events occurring in the order required to leave her alive, and not him. She stopped a few feet in front of him, seemingly unsure how to continue. She could throw herself into his embrace, leap into his arms, shove him up against the nearest tree and make him forget his own name, or, and he thought this more likely, she would find a less fun way to distract him and then stab him in the liver. It was, after all, what he deserved.

Ena’vun, for her part, had been quite keen to do both. Jump his bones, and then stab him in the liver, but the others had been concerned that she would not be in the correct frame of mind to complete her task should she indulge, and insisted she come up with another plan. They stood in silence for a moment, neither quite able to look into the other’s eyes, for fear of their resolve breaking. They both had a duty to their people, to save the world, albeit from opposite perspectives. Had she stayed with the clan, not been involved with the inquisition at all, maybe she would have followed him, sought a better life for elves, to better connect to her heritage. Knowing what she did, however, how the ancients lived, how they felt about modern elves, had put dampeners on any plans to defect. She had a sneaking suspicion that although her people would be liberated from human brutality, they would be subjected to far worse by their own race. She was convinced there must be a better way of solving the problem. 

Solas, however, was too blinded by guilt, too stuck in his ways to consider another path. She had tried on several occasions to try to push him towards a less drastic path, but he always resisted. After the fourth attempt she resigned herself to the fact that he must be avoiding telling her something else, and started to work towards stopping him instead. If he wasn’t going to bother to explain why she shouldn’t, she would persist. 

Her back spasmed, and she was reminded of the other reason her advisors had strongly objected to her original plan – the anchor had finally caught up with her. They weren’t sure how long she had left, but it was closer to days, maybe hours now. They had devised a way of draining the power, it accelerated the deterioration, but it meant she could go out in public without causing concern, or inviting a barrage of questions. She had approximately an hour before the magic filled the void, and she glowed like a spirit from head to toe, and as she did not want Solas to know just how bad the situation was, she would have to act relatively quickly.  
“I wish you had trusted me.” She said quietly, finally catching his eye. 

“It was not that simple.” He replied just as soft, not hiding the pain the decision to keep her out had caused him. She had been far safer trying to kill him, than being by his side as he fought old friends and foes alike. The risks were always too high, whether it was Qunari, Evanuris, or human nobility, if any of his innumerable enemies had found out about their relationship, he had no doubt she would have been killed in some misguided attempt to stop him.

“Nothing with you ever is.” Ena’vun stated bitterly, his secrets had secrets that kept secrets. He let out a slightly strangled noise at the accuracy of her words. It had been a very long time since his life was simple, and even then he had been accused of duplicity.

“On that note,” He began, causing Ena’vun to roll her eyes, “if you kill me before the spell has run its course, the uncast magic will cause an explosion that will make the blast at the conclave look like child’s play. The veil must come down vhenan, it cannot be sustained, and to shatter of its own accord would destroy all life as we know it.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath at his revelation. Of course it would. That it furthered his other plans was just a pleasing side-benefit. She exhaled slowly, opening her eyes again to find him simply waiting for her to make the next move. Would it be check, or checkmate? To his surprise she shrugged off her weaponry, even removing the spare, emergency knife she kept in her boots, and put it all in a neat pile. As she made a show of double checking for any more pointy objects upon her person that she may have missed, she enquired as to how long the spell would take. He looked thoughtful for a moment, as if counting down, before returning his now empty gaze to her,

“You may kill me now.” He stated in a voice so empty she almost had to double check for a sunburst symbol on his forehead.

Two steps forward, and she was close enough to cup his cheek, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone. A single tear ran down her cheek as she raised herself onto her toes and kissed him softly, hanging on to the sensation of his mouth, the smell of the fur on his armour, and the gentle sigh that escaped him as she felt her limbs turn to stone.

Tales would be told of the statue in the mountains, one of two lovers with lips a hair’s breadth apart, foreheads touching, locked in a fierce embrace. A spirit of compassion would often frequent the place where they stood, immortalised, and tell of a wolf poisoned by true love’s kiss, her death tied to his, never alone again.


End file.
